by Barbara Bard
Chapter 18
“I’m sorry,” Eamon said from on top of his horse. “I dinnae planned on things tae gae that way.”
Agatha waved him off. “It’s fine. Really.”
“It’s nae. I just want tae get us safely out of harm’s way.”
They rode side-by-side, the dirt road beneath them opening up into a forested area, ripe with trees that seemed to stretch into the heavens. The sun overhead cut through the trees, patterns of light on the ground and cascading warm blankets of light across Eamon and Agatha. For a moment, they were mesmerized, completely captivated by the natural splendor that was the Highlands. And it was quiet, save for the sound of birds chirping and the soft breeze that blew through and licked at their skin.
Agatha laughed.
“What is it?” Eamon asked.
She shook her head. “I just forget how beautiful this place can be. It has been so wrought with war and strife that one forgets to take a look around.”
Eamon matched Agatha’s smile. He looked around fondly at the woods, memories of his childhood flooding his mind. “I cannae remember the last time things were at peace. Maybe when I was a child.”
“What kind of child were you like?”
“A troublemaker.”
Agatha laughed. “I can see that. More than your sister?”
Eamon nodded. “Very much so. I remember this day when we set the horses loose in the stables. Me father…” he laughed, “he was chasing them all around for a good while. Me sister blamed me. Me father is one tae let this gae fairly easily, but me mother certainly was nae happy.”
Agatha bit her lip, debating if she should ask what she wanted tae ask. “When did she die? Your mother?”
Eamon hung his head. “A few years ago. Nae long. She fell ill. It had a significant impact on the clan. She was a fearsome warrior. She led our people tae freedom on mair than one occasion.”
“Your sister told me tales about yer mother. Isla was her name?”
Eamon nodded, smile fondly at the sound of his mother’s name. “Isla. Aye.”
“I am sorry she has passed.”
Eamon said nothing—what was there to say? “What of yer mother?” he finally asked. “Is she still alive?”
Agatha shook her head as they arrived at a fork in the road, Eamon pointing right as they turned their horses and headed into a decline in the terrain. “No,” Agatha said. “She passed a long time ago. She…” memories of the past began to pull at her heartstrings, “she went to great lengths to see that I didn’t have the same life she did, one of servitude or suffering in a loveless marriage simply for the sake of being provided for. She wanted me to be my own woman. Sadly, I think the years of strife wore her down. Her health declined. She passed away a long time ago.” A single tear slid down her cheek, Agatha quickly wiping it away. “I will always regret not being able to see her before she passed.”
Eamon looked at Agatha, his own emotions being stirred. “She sounds like she loved ye very much.”
“She did. I know she did.”
They continued their ride through the forest, the trees growing seemingly more towering the further they rode.
“What is going to happen now?” Agatha inquired. “Our original plan has now fallen through.”
“We gae tae that man I mentioned,” Eamon said. “We will take refuge with him. It will provide us a few day’s worth of thinking. From there, we shall come up with a new plan.”
“I worry, Eamon.”
“I ken.”
“No, I mean…I worry that…I won’t be able to defend myself. After that incident at the tavern…” She huffed. “I just want to be able to take up the sword if something should happen, if we are put in a position where I am forced to take up the sword.”
Eamon tugged on the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. Agatha followed suit, the two of them facing one another. “Ye wish tae learn how tae fight?” Eamon said.
Agatha nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”
Eamon stroked his beard, squinting as he examined Agatha from head-to-toe. “Come,” he said. “Dismount yer horse.”
Agatha hopped off of her saddle, Eamon following after her as he moved to the bag tethered to the rear of his horse. He took the bag and produced his sword along with a thinner and more lightweight one stored inside with it. He walked up to Agatha, handing her the smaller sword as he clutched onto his own.
“Ye hae never used a sword afore?” Eamon asked.
Agatha shook her head. “Never.”
“Well,” Eamon said, gripping onto his blade and holding it up to the light, “the sword is like an extension of one’s self, like an extension of your arm. Fighting is about anticipation, knowing when tae strike and knowing when tae defend. Come. Try to take a stab at me.”
Agatha’s eyes were wide as she looked down at the forged steel in her hand. “Eamon, I—”
“Come now,” he interjected. “I hae been doing this all me life. Just come. Try tae cut me.”
Agatha drew a breath, gripping the sword with both hands before taking a step forward and swiping at Eamon. Eamon parried the attack, side-stepping Agatha, spinning around, and coming up beside her. He wrapped his arm around her waist, gently, and softly leaned into her ear before saying: “It’s about footwork, too.”
Agatha giggled as she felt Eamon’s warm breath tickling the hairs on her neckline. “Footwork?”
“Aye. Footwork.” He released her. “Noo, try again. I will show ye the finer points of the craft. It is nae hard tae learn.”
They practiced for an hour, Eamon making minor corrections in Agatha’s stance and the way she was handling her weapon. She caught on quickly, adapting and heeding his lessons well and at one point nearly slicing his arm from a well-timed scythe.
“Very good!” Eamon said. “Ye are a natural. We will make a fine swordswoman out of ye yet.”
Agatha smiled, holding the blade in her hand as she looked at it proudly, a thin layer of perspiration on her brow. Eamon took a step forward, using his sleeve to dab at the sweat on her brow as the two of them connected eyes.
“So,” Agatha said. “I am good at two things now.”
Eamon squinted. “Two things?”
Agatha nodded, biting her lower lip as she leaned in and focus her gaze on Eamon’s lip. “Yes,” she said. “Would you like to know the other…?”
They said not a word more, locking lips and kissing passionately with their swords still clutched in their hands. As the feverishness of their kissing increased, they dropped their swords to the ground. Eamon reached over blindly to his saddle with a free hand, pulling down a blanket and tossing it on the ground.
They broke their embrace, Agatha removed her garb and stared teasingly at Eamon as he flattened the blanket on the ground. He then stripped, the two of them naked as they coiled their limbs around one another and began to make love in the middle of the forest.
Eamon thrusted on top of Agatha, his mouth on her neckline as she bit her lip and told him to go faster. She wanted him. She wanted to feel the intensity of his lovemaking. She did not want it slow—she wanted it fast. She desired him, every inch of her body seeking to be pleased as she clawed at his back and left subtle marks in the skin.
Eamon grabbed Agatha’s hands and pinned them on top of her head. Agatha giggled, Eamon smiling in reply as he moved his hips and made Agatha produce a variety of squeals that indicated nothing more than sheer pleasure.
Agatha then broke free of Eamon’s grip, shooting forward and pinning him onto his back while he was still inside of her. She gyrated her hips, Eamon’s head sinking back and his eyelids fluttering as Agatha smiled and dug her claws into his chest.
“Yes…” she said as she closed her eyes. “Eamon…”
“Say it again,” Eamon said.
Agatha looked him deep in the eyes. “Yes, Eamon! Yes!”
They could feel the moment of climax approaching, the two of them gripping onto each other’s flesh as the sensation rose,
and rose, and rose before exploding into a wave of euphoria that caused their bodies to tremble. They rested side-by-side once they were finished, kissing one another for a few minutes before standing and putting back on their clothes.
“You are sure,” Agatha said, “that this will never change between us?”
Eamon nodded. “My body would never grow tire of yours, not even in a thousand years. My heart will crave you for as long as it beats.”
They embraced, holding each other for a few minutes and pretending as if nothing else mattered.
“We should gae,” Eamon said, still trying to catch his breath. “We can arrive at this man’s home afore nightfall if we are vigilant.”
Agatha looked off to her left, something catching her attention as she squinted and pointed. “What is that?” she asked.
Eamon cozied up alongside her, searching until he saw a thin plume of smoke rising into the sky from a half-mile away. “It’s a village,” he said.
“Perhaps we should stay there for the night?”
“Possibly. I dinnae who dwells there. It may be dangerous.”
Agatha retrieved her sword and held it up. “Luckily for me, I know how to use one of these now.”
Eamon looked at her and smiled, kissing her once before they saddled up and began riding in the direction of the smoke plume. As they left the forested area, from about fifty yards away, a pair of eyes coated with a lethal glint watched as Eamon and Agatha strolled into the village. The eyes belonged to the man called Simon—the leader of The Hands of God.
***
Simon and his men were perched on top of a hill shrouded with shrubbery, concealed from view as they looked down at a small village with three cottages and a blacksmith resting in the center of the village. He watched unblinkingly as Eamon and Agatha arrived inside and were greeted by a few of the local villagers.
One of Simon’s men came alongside him. “I recognize him,” he said with a whisper. “That is one of the Baird men.”
“And the woman with him?”
The man shook his head. “I do not recognize her.”
Simon drew a breath. “Something is afoot with these Bairds. After our scout was capture at their village, it seemed to set something into motion.”
“What do you think that means?”
Simon crossed his arms, turning his head up to the heavens. “It means that God is testing us. This is not coincidence. Nothing in this life is. This Baird man and his companion are a test, and how we respond to that test will make all the difference.”
“How so?”
Simon jutted his chin toward the village. “I want them taken alive,” he said. “They might possess knowledge of what is at play. The Highlanders in the region are on high alert since we began our crusade. I want to see what they know.”
“So,” the man said, “we still plan to attack this village?”
“Yes. Come nightfall. But again—take the Baird man and his companion alive. The rest of the villagers will meet their fate as was stated before.” He looked up at the sun, squinting and judging the time. “It will be nightfall soon. Perhaps a little over an hour. We shall strike then.”
“I will let the men know, Simon.”
Simon then sat on the ground as the man informed the rest of the Hands of God as to their plan of attack. Simon kept his gaze homed in on the village as the sun began to slowly descend in the west, his eyes seemingly unblinking as he waited for day to turn to night, filling the time by praying to God and requesting that their mission remain successful. As soon as the sun slipped behind the mountains, he retrieved his sword, ordered his men to take up their weapons, and began leading them like a slow-moving tide toward the front of the village.
Chapter 19
Eamon shook hands with the village elder after him and Agatha dismounted their horses, a few of the other villages gathering in curiosity to get a glimpse of the newcomers.
“Hello, lad,” the elder said, his silver hair matching his silver beard. “Me name is Marcus. How can I assist ye?”
“Me name is Eamon Baird,” Eamon said. “Of the Baird clan.”
Marcus clapped his hands together. “Aye. I ken of yer clan. It is a privilege tae hae ye in our village.”
“I apologize fer our sudden arrival, but me companion and I are in the throes of a long journey. We were hoping tae seek shelter here tonight and food if ye can spare it. We are happy tae pay.”
Marcus waved Eamon off. “Nonsense. Ye are our guest. I would be mair than happy tae accommodate ye two.” He looked to Agatha. “And who might ye be?”
Agatha put out her hand. “Agatha. A pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Agatha. Come. The both of ye. Come tae me house. I already hae supper prepared and ready.”
They followed Marcus into his home, a modest dwelling with a crackling fireplace being tended to by Marcus’ wife, Elizabeth. After introductions were made, they sat down at a table and partook in a stew with warm bread for dipping. Marcus poured each of them a single finger of whiskey, telling them about the history of his village before asking Eamon the details about their journey.
“It is complicated,” Eamon said. “We are riding south tae meet a man aboot taking refuge.”
“Where is the rest of yer clan?” Marcus inquired.
“They are seeking tae fortify the village at the moment. Hae ye heard of the Hands of God?”
Marcus and Elizabeth exchanged a look. “Aye,” Marcus said. “Unfortunately, we hae. Savages that spill blood in the name of God.”
“Hae ye encountered them?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Naw, thankfully. We hae managed tae live in peace here fer some time. We hae lived a quiet life. Our small numbers hae assisted greatly in that.”
“We also hae an alliance with one of the local Sassenach lords,” Marcus said. “We provide him with grain, and he provides us with protection. I dinnae relish being in league with them, but it has proven an asset in sustaining a lasting peace.”
“That is good and well,” Eamon said. “I dinnae discredit ye fer doing so.”
“Desperate times, desperate measures. So, how long dae ye plan on staying?”
“Just fer the night. We shall disembark in the morning.”
“Then ye shall stay in our guest bedroom,” Elizabeth said as she stood up. “I shall prepare it fer ye noo.”
Eamon nodded. “Yer hospitality is maist appreciated, me dear Elizabeth.”
Marcus folded his hands and perched forward. “Hae ye encountered the Hands of God by chance?”
Eamon nodded again. “Aye. Savages, as ye hae stated. They are currently on a campaign right noo tae rid the land of all Highlanders and Sassenach. They are nae discriminatory. They want everyone tae perish.”
A scream erupted from outside of the dwelling. All those in the room stood, Marcus and Eamon quickly reaching for their swords and Agatha doing the same. Eamon and Marcus didn’t need to ask who or what was traipsing about outside—it was undoubtedly the Hands of God.
Eamon, Marcus, and Agatha rushed out of the home, Simon and the Hands of God chasing down villagers in the dark of night with lit torches and swords in hand.
“Gae left!” Eamon ordered Marcus. “Attack them from the side!”
Marcus wasted no time, engaging the Hands of God as the other able-bodied men in the village began to fight.
Eamon grabbed Agatha by the elbow. “Stay close tae me.”
Agatha, her heart racing and breathing shallow, nodded as she stayed next to Eamon. Seconds later, two members of the Hands of God rushed at them from the right. Eamon quickly dispatched of the first man as the other sought to grab Agatha. But Agatha, remembering well what she had learned from Eamon, buried the tip of her blade into the man’s heart and killed him where he stood.
Marcus, engaging several members of the Hands of God alongside two of his men, pushed the intruders back and killed two of them in the blink of an eye. He struck the third man in the leg, dropp
ing him to his knees and prepared to take off his head.
“Naw!” Eamon said. “Keep him alive!”
Marcus nodded, ordering one of his men to stand guard as the rest of the villagers engaged the Hands of God.
Eamon struck down two more of the men, and as he felt a third approaching from behind him, he raised his sword and saw himself staring into the eyes of the leader, Simon. Time felt as if it was slowing to a creep, Simon raising his sword and staring at Eamon with a pair of unblinking eyes.
